I keep having dreams, but they aren’t mine. They belong to a young man who have still not become himself, the dreams are the conflicts of his own mind, the struggle on what choice to make. He is fragile, a brittle flower in the midst of worlds built from steel and concrete. He is a chosen one, his insight will give other men and women his insight. I have the dreams of a messiah in the making, a king for our land of blind men. Every night I dream of him I feel euphoric and filled when I wake up but there is a relapse like those found in the junkies and lovers as reality is so bleak next to these visions. He will grow older and he will make it, leaving me with a taste of zinc in my mouth. The looming shadow is what I lack in my living life, the burden or the gift, following every footstep of mine.

tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST HUMAN MEMORY?

Smashing my face into my first birthday cake.

It’s been the same thing for a few weeks now. I’ll sit in my bed and fumble about in attempt to find the perfect place or the most comfortable position I can make in my bed (which is basically a bundle of metal wires covered in thin cloth at this point). If I do happen to find somewhere comfortable, my body feels that it is the right time to decide to send rushes of adrenaline through my veins; and when it so happens that I finally become tired, my bed tends to be all the more discomforting.

When I do finally end up nodding off, two hours later I need to get up and ready myself for school, or church, or some event that my non-immediate family wants me to attend. Quite frankly, I rather them kindly fuck off.

Also, to no avail.

Now it seems that when I’m tired my body just decides to completely shut off, not caring what I’m doing (important or otherwise). Joy.